


Alchemy

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Facebook Prompts [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, M/M, Scents & Smells, Soap is a Thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 06:57:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12151137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: It is well known that a Born Soapman can, by instinct, create a soap that will combine with your natural chemistry to give you comfort and confidence. It's been a long time since John Watson had seen a Soapman, and he is sceptical at best, but Mike is insistent that Sherlock is remarkable.





	Alchemy

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, this is what happened when I sat down with the prompt 'Soap for Introverts - Unscented, because seriously, you're not going out anyway' (images [here](https://www.google.com.au/search?q=soap+for+introverts&rlz=1C1VFKB_enAU647AU647&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjsj_LzjbbWAhVIUbwKHVWvD2MQsAQILQ&biw=1366&bih=662#imgrc=_)). Given the range of varieties available, I suspect there will be a few one shots that come out of this. <3

Alchemy

 

John had been putting off the visit. In the end, his mother had come down to London without warning, and it had taken less than a minute before she wrinkled her nose and asked, “When did you last visit a Soapman?”

John groaned. There had been one during his basic training but he suspected the man was Taught rather than Born, as most of the soldiers he worked with were given a suspiciously similar combination. Not that it mattered, stuck in a desert getting shot at; they all stank of the same fear and anxiety regardless of the soap they used. Assuming they washed at all, given the uncertainty of their position. Once he’d been sent to the hospital, all the soap was the same; unscented antibacterial stuff, generic and blank, much like the paintwork. His discharge package had included another cake of the same soap, and he’d seen no reason to throw it out, not while he was existing on such a meagre income. Perhaps when he’d found a job he’d seek out a decent Soapman. There was a small voice in his head that occasionally pointed out the other option, but he ignored the reminder that dead men didn’t need soap.

Before she left, Liz Watson extracted a promise from her son that he would visit a Soapman before the end of the week. “Take it, John.” She’d insisted, pressing a bundle of banknotes into his hand. He knew this was her savings; the miserly amount his father permitted her as housekeeping was nowhere near this much. The tears in her eyes as she looked into his despair filled eyes made him shrink even further into himself.

“You need a fresh start. Go and see a good Soapman. Find one Born, he’ll help.” John hadn’t had the courage to start the old argument with his mother. Her faith in the power of a Soapman was unshakable, and the belief that a Born Soapman would change the course of his life would not be swayed. He sighed as she walked back towards the tube station, feeling the heft of the money in his hand. As he focussed on his hand, the tremor started again; gritting his teeth his clutched his traitorous left hand with his right, squeezing until both were still. This money would pay his rent for a long time, longer than he could otherwise afford; he would be foolish to squander it on something so superstitious as a Born Soapman.

+++

Anyone can visit a Soapman at any point in their lives; indeed, many people believe that a visit to the Soapman is essential before changing jobs, moving house, or the birth of a child. We acclimatise to scent after a time, and the confidence and comfort of a new personalised scent is lost with regular use. Personalisation is not enforced; people are free to buy whatever they like. Some, creatures of habit, buy the same soap their whole lives, or buy for someone else, or to remind them of a departed loved one. Everyone knows of course that your individual chemistry will change the scent, so it will never smell the same in the shop as it does on a person; the intuitive understanding of this complex chemistry is still a mystery. That’s why good Soapmen are Born, not Taught, and their skills are some of the most highly prized. They can combine light top notes, the first to be noticed, with a lingering base note that will flourish when combined with the right skin. The accord, the balance of all the scents, will offer comfort and confidence to the right wearer; should anyone else use that soap, the effect will be decidedly inferior. The lighter top notes, less affected by chemistry as they naturally dissipate sooner, will remain, but without the activation of the base notes by the right skin, the resulting scent is a poor imitation of the original.

A good Soapman is viewed as is a good doctor. People will travel long distances to see one, and often will take their advice without question. An unattractive, even repellent scent in the shop can be changed as though by alchemy to an alluring bouquet when applied to the right skin. A Born Soapman will be able to smell the results of the combination before it happens, much as a vintner senses which barrel in which to age a wine, or a skilled pastry chef feels the correct consistency of a cake batter. While many claim to have learned the art, only those Born with the skill will ever be more than mediocre in their profession; the relative cost of visiting those Born and those Taught is reflective of this difference.

+++

Two days later, John found himself standing on a street just south of Regent’s Park – prime real estate. He’d run into an old friend, and Mike had insisted he visit this Soapman.

“I mean, Born ones are always good, but he’s…” Mike had trailed off, shaking his head. “Look, I can shout you a visit if you need, mate-“

John had cut him off. “No, I’m fine, I can cover it.” And somehow, he’d agreed to go. The man didn’t take appointments, but Mike had promised to text him and let him know John was coming.

“He’s a bit, well, odd.” Mike had warned him. “Does things differently to any other Soapman I’ve met. But he’s good, the best, so don’t let him put you off.”

John had been a little wary after that, hence the reconnaissance. The flat looked like any other on the street; there was nothing to advertise that an apparently excellent Soapman lived here. As he considered his options, which were limited, John’s phone buzzed.

_I can’t treat you from here. SH_

He blinked. Who on earth was that? Unknown number.

_Who is this?_

The reply came swiftly.

_Just come up, John. I won’t bite. SH_

John studied his phone, schooling his face so his surprise would not show. It must be the Soapman. What was his name again? Something unusual…Sherlock. So he was watching John, impatient at his indecision, clearly.

Replacing his phone in his pocket, John squared up, took a moment, then marched himself to the door marked simply, ‘221’. A young woman answered the door. She was pretty, with a dark ponytail and kind face.

“You must be John.” She greeted him. “Come in. I’m Molly, Sherlock’s assistant.”

He greeted her and left his coat in the hall; Molly led him upstairs and indicated a door. “I’ll make some tea.” She murmured as John knocked before entering. This was clearly the sitting room of a flat; every surface was covered with papers, books and what looked like thousands of samples of oils and perfumes. The only part of the room that looked organised was an enormous rack bearing thousands of small vials, completely covering the wall to his right. Each was filled with liquid to varying levels; none bore labels.

“How do you remember which is which?” John blurted out. It was the first thing that came to mind, and he swivelled back to the room, realising he’d addressed someone he hadn’t even looked at yet.

“I use my brain, John, that’s what it’s for.” The voice came from the man sitting next to the fire, staring at John with an intense gaze. He wore a dressing gown over a shirt and suit trousers; his feet were bare, and drawn up, perched on the edge of the chair like a giant bird.

“You must be Sherlock, thank you for seeing me.” John replied, feeling disconcerted at the introduction after he’d just been insulted. At least he thought he had. He tried to remember what Mike had said and let the comment go. Sherlock did not offer him a seat, so John stood in the doorway, unsure how a Born Soapman worked. He’d only ever visited Taught ones, and their methods ranged from meticulous to outrageous.

“Sherlock!” A female voice sounded, scolding him as an older lady bustled in from the kitchen. “John, do sit down. I’m Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock’s landlady. I’ve brought you the tea and some biscuits. Do let John have at least one this time.” This last comment was directed at Sherlock, who appeared to ignore her altogether.

John took the invitation to sit, perching himself on the seat opposite Sherlock. When Mrs. Hudson had left and stillness descended over the room, John shifted uncomfortably.

“Why are you here, John?” Sherlock asked finally.

John blinked. “My mum made me come.” He answered automatically. When he realised what he’d said, a hot flush spread up his face. “I mean, she thinks I need a new soap. New beginnings and all that. She’s pretty superstitious.”

“And you are not.”

“No.” John told him frankly.

“So then my question stands. You are an adult male, recently invalided out of the Army, though your tremor is psychosomatic. You have served overseas for an extended period and only returned home recently; your therapist is concerned that you’re not reintegrating. So why would such a man listen to his mother’s desire to come see a Soapman?”

John stared, knowing his mouth hung open. He could see Sherlock scowling at him; the Soapman seemed cross with himself, or perhaps John. “That was brilliant.” John breathed. He watched the frown deepened before Sherlock spoke somewhat reluctantly.

“You think so?”

John nodded vigorously. “Of course, it was quite remarkable.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, shifting in his seat as he sized up John. “Stand up.” He said suddenly, bounding out of his chair. John complied, stepping forward at Sherlock’s motioning to do so. Sherlock walked around him, looking closely at John from all angles. It was weird, kind of like being on parade; John treated it as such, falling naturally into parade rest as Sherlock spent a good ten minutes looking at him.

“Raise your dominant arm.” Sherlock instructed, voice quiet in the silence of the room. John did so, and Sherlock raised one eyebrow as though asking for permission to touch the outstretched hand. John nodded, then watched in fascination as Sherlock closely examined each finger individually before turning his hand over. The scars from the blackberry bushed when he was ten; the edge of his tan just above the wrist; no detail went unnoticed. Without warning, Sherlock raised John’s wrist to his lips and licked a wide stripe across it, causing John to pull away and shout in alarm.

“What the hell…”

“My apologies, John. I needed a sample of your natural composition.” Sherlock said, before turning away abruptly. He stood contemplating the wall of vials, ignoring John so completely that he wondered if he’d been forgotten.

“I’d suggest pouring the tea before it goes cold.” Molly had reappeared, presumably alerted by John’s shout. “He could spend a quite a while considering things.”

John nodded at her as she left again. Mike had warned him to bring something to do; John had wondered why, and now was glad he’d added his laptop to his satchel. He poured a cup of tea, hesitating before pouring one for Sherlock as well. Doctoring his own, John dropped back into his chair and pulled out his laptop. His therapist would be happy, he finally had something to write about.

+++

Two hours later, John was pondering the title of his first blog post when Sherlock finally moved. He stepped forward and started taking vials off the shelf, muttering to himself. The vials were placed on a table clearly set aside for chemical work. As John watched in fascination, his blog forgotten, Sherlock began mixing the contents of the vial into a large boiling flask. The round bottomed flask was suspended over an unlit Bunsen burner; John wondered how Sherlock had managed to have gas connected to the middle of his sitting room. It was like watching a dancer, the Soapman’s movements graceful and sure as he added a drop of this and a splash of that; he stopped periodically to swirl the mixture together, wafting the scent to his nose. He would either nod or make a face, reaching for another seemingly identical vial. Some of the liquids were coloured but most were clear; John had no idea how he could tell the difference in the mess on the table, but his hand was unerring. This was the difference, John could see, between Taught Soapmen and those Born; he’d never seen someone acting so entirely on instinct before. Sherlock did not consult a single book, nor was there any method of measurement that John could discern. He was creating this mixture specifically for John without a single outside influence or hesitation in his movement. It was the single most mesmerising performance John had ever seen. Finally, Sherlock appeared happy with the mixture he had created. He added a soap base and lit the Bunsen burner, alarmingly enough with a burning cigarette. The concoction slowly heated as he dragged on the cigarette, and at the exact moment he exhaled his last perfect smoke ring, a long slim hand flicked off the gas, killing the flame under John’s soap.

“Molly!” he shouted, before turning and collapsing into his chair. His eyes closed and he breathed deeply through his nose. Molly hurried in, shooting a brief smile at John before she attended to the soap. Pivoting the flask clamp, she poured the liquid soap into the moulds waiting on the table. She tapped the air bubbles out before turning to John.

“Your soap will be ready tomorrow morning. You can collect it from here, or I can have it delivered.” Molly told him. It was clearly a dismissal, and John packed away his laptop, preparing to leave. As he did, Sherlock opened his eyes. They fell on the now cold tea John had poured him almost three hours ago. He frowned, then looked again at John.

“Stay.” The word was presumptuous, and directed at John.

“I beg your pardon?” John asked, and he felt Molly turning to face Sherlock too, her shock at his command equal to his own.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I would be pleased if you would stay a little longer, John. Molly, may we have a fresh tea tray, please?” If John was shocked at this obviously unusual civility, Molly appeared to almost fall over. John suspected Sherlock was not the kind of employer who used the word ‘please’ very often.

“Okay,” she said in a not-unhappy, resigned voice.

John sat down again, looking to Sherlock for an explanation. None was forthcoming, so he said, “Molly was kicking me out.”

“Yes.”

“That’s her job isn’t it. Answer the door, then kick people out.”

“Pretty much.”

John studied Sherlock. “You don’t really do people, do you?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “What makes you say that?”

“I’m guessing more people tell you to piss off than tell you you’re brilliant.”

The first genuine smile crossed Sherlock’s face at this. “Indeed.”

“So why am I still here?” John asked.

“You made me tea.” Sherlock admitted. John nodded slowly. They sat in silence for a few minutes until Molly brought the fresh tea in.

“Thanks.” John murmured, and she departed, shooting a still-surprised look at Sherlock.

“Molly’s leaving.” Sherlock said abruptly.

“What?” John asked.

“Molly. She is leaving my employment.” John waited. He was getting the impression Sherlock did not speak without reason, and he did not like to repeat himself. So John waited, ready to pay attention to whatever Sherlock said next.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking, sometimes I don’t talk for days. There are people here all the time, and you’d have to bandage me up on occasion.”

John processed this before answering. “Are you offering me a job?” Answering doors, kicking people out, bandaging…

“Wait, what? Bandaging you up?”

Sherlock shrugged with a good attempt at nonchalance. “Some people get angry when I do the deduction thing. I do some work for Scotland Yard and it can get dangerous.” John felt his pulse speed up at the word ‘dangerous.’

“How dangerous?” He couldn’t help asking.

Sherlock grinned at him. “Pretty dangerous. And in answer to your question, I’m offering you a flat share. Assistant duties in lieu of rent.”

Joh’s eyebrows rose at this. “In lieu?”

“How much were you going to pay to see me today?” Sherlock pointed out. “I could make five times that every day if I wanted. Money is not an issue, but I need an assistant.”

“I don’t know,” John hedged.

“I said dangerous, and your eyes lit up.” Sherlock pointed out immediately. And rudely. John could see the regret flash across his face, and realised that he was a bit of a wanker. And, John realised, he was right.

“Alright then,” John said, “but I’m not your housekeeper. Tea for clients, and I expect I’ll do the shopping, but I’m not hoovering or doing your laundry or anything.”

Sherlock grinned. “Deal.”

John nodded, still a little uncertain. Sherlock rose, walking over to pick up John’s now set soap. He offered one of the bars to John. “Why don’t you wash your hands with this?” he suggested. “See how it makes you feel.”

John stared at it before slowly extending his hand and accepting it. For some reason it felt right in his hand. Like it was made for me, his mind rhapsodised, before he reminded it that the soap was literally made for him, specifically for him.

“Thanks,” he said, following Sherlock’s direction to the bathroom. Washing hands was not a great test of a soap, but it was better than nothing; John had heard that a lot of Born Soapmen, the kind with offices on Harley Street, encouraged their clients to shower with their new soap before leaving to ensure their satisfaction. Most mid to low end Soapmen merely offered their bathroom for handwashing; some cheap Soapman didn’t even provide that, having either nothing at all, or a basin of questionably clean water on a table.

Running the water until it was comfortably warm, John half-filled the sink. He was nervous, he realised, watching the water slowly rise up the side of the basin. It was a long time since he’d had a good soap, one made for him; it had been a graduation present from his parents when he’d finished high school and been accepted to medical school. That soap had been a Woody scent; masculine and defined as befit a man of the world. He could still remember the confidence that had filled him as the scent had ripened over the course of that day; it had stayed with him as he used it through medical school. John couldn’t remember when that confidence had worn off, but it had been a long time ago.

Without thinking too much about it John rolled his sleeves up and plunged his hands into the water, passing the soap from hand to hand as he worked up the lather. He had not stopped to smell the soap before he’d plunged it into the water, but now the scent was coming to him, borne on the gentle tendrils of steam rising from the water. He breathed in, the layers filling his nose and lulling his eyes shut. Intellectually he knew the warm water had not changed temperature, nor was it warm enough to allow such heat to flow through his body, and yet he felt it. The warmth stemmed from his lungs and hands, rolling over his skin and through his muscles, soothing aches and relaxing his mind. There was something there, something that reminded him of safety and comfort. It smoothed the jagged edges of his anxiety, and John felt his tense shoulders drop for the first time in the weeks since he’d returned. The soap was slippery in his hands, and when the warm no longer felt warm, John regretfully opened his eyes, blinking against the light. He had no idea how long he’d been there, but Sherlock hadn’t kicked him out so he must be okay. John drained the water, raising his hands to breathe the scent of the soap in deeply. He knew the effect would wear off as he became accustomed to the aroma but for now it was like a drug. He marvelled at the perfection of it, and wondered how it would smell in an hour – two – five? The depth would come out then, the light notes gently fading away and allowing the base notes to shine. How on earth did Sherlock do it? He was brilliant, and despite the abrupt exterior, John knew instinctively that this was the place for him. This was where he belonged in London. He dried his hands on a towel, leaving the soap by the basin.

“I’ll move in tomorrow, then.” He said, dropping back into his chair.

Sherlock grinned at him.

“Perfect.”


End file.
